


Tangent Lines

by cosmicGeologist



Category: Original Work
Genre: Agender Character, Anxiety, Autism, Gen, My First Fanfic, One Shot, POV First Person, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:17:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9880145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicGeologist/pseuds/cosmicGeologist
Summary: An unusual meeting between two very different people.





	

I'm sitting on a bench in a carnival in the smallest county in Virginia. I have a corn dog in my hand. I know for a fact that if Eugine found out that I had been within a mile of this non-FDA-cleared-monstrosity he would put me in quarantine for a month. I took a bite. Not bad. I chewed slowly.

It wasn't often I did something like this. Go beyond orders, I mean. But seriously, did they really expect me to go somewhere as average as Norfolk, Virginia and not look around? The town is astoundingly normal. The only extraordinary thing there is the ocean, and even though it's still a view of an amazing, uncontrollable, chaotic creature, it's surroundings manage to make it seem… less, somehow.

I take another bite and study the pockmarked surface of the breading. This is actually pretty good. I turn my attention to the herd of people going past. Some meander lazily and some buzz about like hummingbirds, selecting their next distraction to perch upon, before zipping off again. Some look bored and others seem like they think this is the high-point of their entire lives. 

All of them are moving so fast that it's hard to see any individuals before they dissolve back into the crowd. People are weird. They are all so different, yet somehow they blend into a massive, colorful, impenetrable shield that can't be breached, only chipped away link by link. The man in the dress shirt who is late for something weaves past the girl and boy who are pretending to be adults and in love and the old woman who has too much pride to let her shoulders bend smiles matronly at the woman who is chasing a small child and calling “Stop Maisey! No!” The child giggles in reply and is quite obviously not going to slow down until someone does it for her. The man running the funnel cake stand tries not to laugh and glances at a picture of a small girl with golden pigtails that's taped to the cash register.

I stand up. I start to walk down the make-shift game alley. I pass one of those stupid milk-bottle games that everyone knows is impossible to win but still try anyway. Someone is giving it their all anyway. I stop and watch. 

She has dark, very curly hair that is up in a ponytail and dark skin with a small, curving, 2-inch line on her left arm that is either a birthmark or a scar. She is in a t-shirt advertising the fact that she attends the high school choir and her jeans are covered in sharpie. She's thin and wiry and taller than me by about half a foot. Not that she's all that tall. I'm just short. 

She screws up her face in concentration and acts like she's at a pitcher's mound. The ball bounces off. The bottles don't even bother to wobble to make it look like it's not rigged. She pouts for a bit before picking up her next ball. 

I look at the sign above her head. It says “THREE BALLS FOR 5$” in faded crimson letters. She has six balls left. She tries again. Again. Again. She has two balls left. The hand that doesn't contain the frayed baseball is in a fist. The ball fails to knock over the pins again. I wonder if she is unhappy that the theoretical futility of the game is being realized.

I walk forward. “Excuse me.” I say. What am I doing? I'm not supposed to talk to civilians. She turns and looks at me. Her eyes aren't disappointed. They're light brown and determined. I suddenly feel tiny. Well, more so than usual. “Um, if you aim for the bottom right corner of the left bottom pin I think you can knock it over.” She keeps looking at me. I shift uncomfortably. She keeps staring.

People don't look at me like this. They are always looking at a tool or a weapon or an afterthought or someone you're just passing on the street. She was looking at me. Why? Am I being odd? Did I say something weird? Do I have something on my face? Did I miscalculate the clothing style of this area? I pick at a stray thread on my long-sleeved blue t-shirt and bite my lip. 

Suddenly, she smiles. No one has smiled at me like that before either. She looks genuinely pleased at the interruption. I don't know how to react. I don't have a specific personality cover planned. I don't know what I'm supposed to do in response. She turns towards me and leans forward. I stiffen slightly. She tosses the ball at me. I fumble it and nearly drop it. 

“You try. I'm obviously not having any luck.”  
“B-but didn't you pay money to play? I don't want to to take your turn.”  
Her smile widens. “It's okay. Just make it count.”

She takes a step back and motions me to step forward. I step towards her and turn to the bottles. I know I can knock them down easily. Should I? I don't know the protocol on this type of conversation. Would knocking them down make her feel bad? Would not knocking it down make me look like a wimp or make her think she made a bad decision to trust me with something she paid for? It would probably be better to knock them down. At least then she would get a prize, even though she could have bought one for a quarter of the money she spent on this game. 

She watches me carefully as I aim and throw the ball. She isn't smiling as widely anymore and her mouth is tighter, but she still doesn't upset. Just focused. I didn't throw it nearly nearly as hard as I could have but harder than her. I hit the spot I am aiming for. The bottles tumble and slide off their platform. She laughs and cheers. “You did it!” I did what I was supposed to do. Thank god.  
She bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet. “Now pick your prize.”  
I blink. “My prize?”

“Yeah.” she says. “You won, didn't you?”  
“But-”  
“I think you should get that one.”  
“But-”  
The greasy, bearded man running the stall, who seems slightly dazed by the fact someone actually one, is already moving to get it down. He hands the neon green unicorn to her and she shoves it in my direction. “Here. Come on. Let's go play some more games. You're awesome at these.”

~

Over the next few hours I learned her name is Myra Nelson, she sings second soprano, she is sixteen, she has a 3.7 GPA, she has a navy truck, and more information about her than any personnel file I've ever read and certainly more than I could ever remember. The conversation was unlike any I've had before because I didn't have to worry about being too casual the entire time. Partly because she didn't actually leave any space for me to talk, but mainly because her personality was easy to be around. I was still careful to not reveal my actual identity, but she learned about Rowan Foster instead. 

Rowan Foster is in high school, too, and two years above Myra, even though they didn't look it. They enjoy archery, and have low As. They're shy and don't have many friends, but are well liked and part of the comic book club. Rowan Foster, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with me, but is pretty much what the Department thought I would be like if I was in a regular high school. 

As we strolled down the game alley, and by strolled I mean Myra dragged me as I stumbled along behind her, we were slowly became more and more buried under plush prizes. By the time we reached the end, Myra had finally relented to take some of the stuffed animals, solely because I was at the point I couldn't carry anymore. Why she insisted to waste money on poorly-made plush objects I have no idea, but she seemed quite happy with them, so I just followed along for the ride.

I remind myself to look up the purpose behind them, since I thought that flat-out asking might end up with awkward questions being asked. I hoist myself up off the bed. I'm currently in my hotel room. It's small and tattered and a little bit mildewy, with no windows, but I like it because it's easily defensible. I move to the rickety desk in the corner and sit at my laptop. It doesn't look big or new or special. Just like a regular, slightly-out-of-date laptop. Maybe that's why I like it so much. 

I turn it on and put my eye to the web cam. Unlike in the spy movies I've watched undercover, there is no fluorescent blue line that theatrically crosses my face, nor does it take a full ten seconds to scan me. I find it entertaining that the Department is so paranoid about even my civilian electronics. God forbid that “the Enemy” should read my internet history. 

I don't really have a right to complain, though. The majority of people in my branch are fitted with the best quality laptops available that require DNA evidence to even open. I'm technically only allowed to use this one while I'm under-cover, but Eugine lets me use it as long as I stay out of his lab when his sign says to.

I open a web browser and type “The purpose of plush animals.” Wikipedia describes the social implications of the toys. I am slightly surprised. Do I seem as though I'm in need of comfort? I'm not sure if the redirect link to taxidermy will be helpful in understanding the finer points of this social custom. I click it. It's not. Why would you do that to an animal in the first place?

 

I wonder if I will see Myra again. 

 

Probably not.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. This is the first work I've posted, so any feedback would be appreciated.


End file.
